


Midnight In Montenegro

by coyotecorpse



Category: Casino Royale (2006), James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Betrayal, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Cock & Ball Torture, Finger Sucking, Happy Ending, Its Not Sexual, James Bond Being James Bond, James Bond Has Issues, Jealousy, Le Chiffre is a sadist, M/M, Masochism, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Canon Compliant, Poisoning, Poker, Sadism, Vesper Lynd is Alive, Vesper and Bond don't date, partialism, toxic intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28484952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotecorpse/pseuds/coyotecorpse
Summary: He slips his bloody fingers into Bond’s mouth and grins sadistically when he licks them clean. James can’t help it, vulnerable and ripped raw. He’s dizzy and in pain and he isn’t sure what he really wants anymore.The taste of Le Chiffre’s fingers on his tongue is addicting. It’s everything Vesper’s wasn’t. It isn’t sexual. It isn’t even fucking romantic. It’s carnal and disgusting and James is gagging for it. He needs it. He leans into it, almost choking himself. His head spins and shame fills him but he can’t stop. Le Chiffre is smiling at him so wide. It almost feels like approval, like validation.
Relationships: James Bond/Le Chiffre (James Bond)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Midnight In Montenegro

**Author's Note:**

> most of the trigger/content warning are in the tags but some of the interactions between Le Chiffre and Bond can come off as dubiously consenual but Bond does want it (there is nothing sexual but I still want to be careful). The relationship is vaguely toxic but that's just canon. Please read at your own risk.
> 
> I am only sort of sorry for writing this.

The casino stands tall against the wide expanse of blue, timeworn but elegant. Bond crosses the street from the hotel. His newly tailored suit is a little tight around the chest, clinging to his muscles. Vesper is either worse at estimating measurements than she thought or she got it wrong on purpose.

He thinks about how her eyes had lingered on the plane, the mentions of his ass, and how the rest of the suit fits perfectly.

It’s objectifying to be viewed like that, a doll to clothe for someone else’s pleasure. He tugs at the collar and pretends it’s just because of the heat. Vesper was simply playing his game, looking at him the way he looks at most women. Observed in his private moment, Bond decides to get her back.

The dress she’s been provided with will give him plenty of chances to pretend she’s his type, that he wants her to take him to her room, that  _ he _ wants to take her to bed.

Sex with a woman who tries to view herself as something immune to sexuality isn’t something he gets to do often; he doesn’t really like putting forth the effort. It’s a passtime, a simple way to fill the hours between running from violence and running towards it.

Bond is sex in wingtips and he knows it. Vesper will fill his time nicely; it’s clear she already views him as something to conquer. He might as well let her think she’s won.

He slips through the metal detector easily and moves towards the velvet rope. He walks with confidence, long strides into the private lounge. A movement in his peripherals catches his attention.

A tall man in a lavish all black suit approaches  — Le Chiffre, the cypher. The big fish he’s here to catch.

“You must be Mr. Bliss’ replacement.” He speaks with a Balkan accent, a light drawl that drags Bond in and holds his attention. “But is it Beech or Bond? I’m a little confused.”

He doesn’t look confused. No, he looks smug, lips tugged up in a cocky smirk. Bond stares back, giving him a smirk of his own. He steps past him and towards the card table.

“We certainly wouldn’t want that.”

The dealer calls everyone over and sets forth the rules. Mendel, the banker, stands quietly to the side with a keypad and requests Bond put in a password of 6 or more digits. They’re going in alphabetic order and it seems he has the misfortune of being the first in line.

He grins as he taps at the keypad, a funny joke that only he will know. Le Chiffre looks a little annoyed, impatiently tapping his foot. He types in his own password after Bond. He distantly wonders if Le Chiffre is the name the Balkan gave to the banker. It fits the order of names but that isn’t saying much.

They move to the table and the game begins. Bond deliberately takes the seat across from Le Chiffre. Everyone files in, taking their seats around the two men who’ve since locked eyes. The room spins around them, a planetary orbit around the sun. Bond can’t help but smile.

Mendel breaks the silence. “Gentlemen, when I return, one of you will be the winner of a considerable fortune. Good luck.”

Everyone at the table nods except for Le Chiffre. Bond quirks his brow as the man pulls a metallic inhaler from his blazer pocket, taking a short puff. His eyes glaze over for a moment — a fraction of a second. 

How interesting…

The dealer deals out single cards, hand moving quickly and efficiently. “High card deals.”

Bond stares blankly at the Jack in front of him. He allows himself to glance up, not giving away a single hint of emotion. Le Chiffre’s eyes lock with his. Suddenly the air is thick with tension, almost tangible. 

The dealer’s voice cuts through their trance and Bond tries to settle back into the game. “It’s Mr. Bond. Monsieur Gallardo, grande persienne. Signor Tomelli, petite persienne. That is to say, a big blind of 10,000 dollars, a little of 5,000.”

Bond cuts the cards, watching as they’re dealt face down across the table. Everyone examines them almost immediately, but Bond waits. He keeps his eyes on Le Chiffre and the rest of players, searching for any sign of emotion. No-one reveals anything and Bond lets himself relax.

He glances at the bar. Mathis stands there alone, leaning casually. He isn’t watching Bond; his eyes are locked on Le Chiffre. Bond decides to do the same, turning back to face the other man.

Let the game commence.

Fukutu, a long haired Japanese software mogul, folds. The table waits with bated breath for the next player's move. Infante, an exiled dictator with a long history with MI6, places his bet.

“Twenty thousand.”

Le Chiffre doesn’t speak, simply placing the same bet. His facial expression never changes. He’s eerily calm, cold and almost distant like he doesn’t care about the outcome of the game. Bond glances at his cards. Two red aces. He wills his face to remain blank, overly aware of the eyes on him — one deep brown and one a milky blue.

Three more players fold. Le Chiffre still doesn’t waver. It’s Bond’s turn and the whole table is watching him. The only one that matters is directly across from him, head cocked slightly like he's genuinely curious. Like he isn’t the most dangerous player at the table.

Bond would be afraid if he wasn’t so confident, if he wasn’t so sure he was evenly matched by the man in front of him.

“Twenty thousand.”

The Italian next to Bond, Tomelli, throws his cards away. The dealer lays down the flop and everyone at the table stares, waiting for the grand reveal.

Bond keeps his eyes on them. Gallardo, an Argentinian billionaire, keeps his expression neutral. The next face is Infante. The African attempts to remain stoic but disappointment creeps into his features. He shifts his gazes to Le Chiffre only to find the man staring directly at him.

He smiles, a baring of teeth, but Le Chiffre doesn’t flinch. Bond finally looks at the flop.

Three hearts: 9-8-5.

Gallardo knocks, knuckles thudding against the heavy wooden table. Infante does the same. Le Chiffre keeps his eyes on Bond, impassive and just left of patronizing. 

“Fifty thousand.” The words drip with boredom, a challenge.

A soft murmur echoes across the table; everyone talking in undertones at the raise. He has to have a flush or maybe 3 of a kind to play so boldly. Or, if Bond can get lucky this early on, he’s bluffing.

The Albanian brings his hand up to his face, two fingers placed at his temple. His injured eye twitches before the touch. It’s a minute movement, but Bond sees it. He pushes 50,000 towards the center of the tables, locking eyes with the other man.

The table practically rumbles with excitement and nerves. Everyone is watching the pair, waiting for the other men at the table to move. Infante and Gallardo throw away their cards; they aren’t ready to lose that much this early.

Bond doesn’t share their reservations. He can’t help but smile; he isn’t playing with his own money. The only thing he has to lose here is his standing with M.

The dealer lays down the common card. A nine.

Le Chiffre’s fingers press hard into the side of head, holding back another twitch. A pair is now out in the open. It’s possible that Le Chiffre holds the other nines, but the twitch must mean something.

There’s only one way to find out.

“100 thousand.” Le Chiffre’s voice doesn’t betray anything, but his fingers are still pressed tight against his temple. A vein in his forehead stands out prominently and Bond sees the stress in the man’s face. He’s tense but desperately trying to remain impassive.

Right at that moment, Vesper waltzes in. She’s wearing a plum purple dress with a plunging neckline; her hair is curled and the necklace she’s wearing draws Bond’s eyes down. She pauses a few feet behind Le Chiffre, staring straight at Bond.

She stalks forward, graceful but filled with purpose. She drapes herself over Bond’s back and presses her lips against his cheek.

He grins softly and whispers. “Hello dear. Weren’t you supposed to enter so that the others could see you?”

“Was I?,” She whispers back with mock innocence. Her hand splays over the tight fabric around his chest. Always such a minx. “My mistake. Good luck, darling.”

If looks could kill, Vesper would be dead on the floor. Le Chiffre’s glare is impatient, verging on petulant. Bond would say he almost looked jealous like Bond’s attention was the only thing making the game entertaining.

His thick, calloused hands shuffle his cards, and it’s clear he’s suppressing an eyeroll.

“Mr. Bond?” The dealer’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts.

“Oh yes, sorry.” 

Le Chiffre visibly relaxes when Bond matches his bet.

The river is placed and the whole table stares at it, except for Bond and Le Chiffre who can’t seem to keep their eyes off one another. A 2 of hearts. Le Chiffre lowers his hand, fingers sliding down his sharp cheekbones and back to the table.

No twitch.

“Two hundred thousand.” A brazen raise. Bond has never been one to back down from a challenge, especially one so obvious.

He pushes his chips forward. “Call.”

Le Chiffre looks surprised, a widening of his pupils. Bond smiles. He loves being unpredictable especially when he gets him looks like that one.

He lays down his cards, holding both black 2s. Bond’s been beat, but he doesn’t show it yet.

“A full house to Monsieur Le Chiffre. Monsieur Bond?”

Bond shakes his head, tossing his cards down. The crowd buzzes and Le Chiffre rakes in his chips triumphantly. Their eyes meet again and Le Chiffre’s lose that victorious glow.

A beat passes. Le Chiffre is suddenly aware of how naked he feels. Bond has stripped him of his armor, has stared straight through his bluff. He can see it now reflected back at him in those deep seas of blue.

“Please send the bar man over.” Bond can’t keep the amusement out of his voice but tries his best to dampen it down, play the loser.

The dealer gives him a shocked look but acquiesces. Le Chiffre observes with rising irritation, visibly annoyed with Bond’s delaying of the game. The barman arrives and Bond watches as the Albanian starts to almost snarl. He may have won but Bond is still in control here and it’s pissing him off.

“A dry martini.”

“Oui, monsieur.” Bond stops the barman before he can fully walk away.

“Just a moment.” The barman turns and the table watches Bond’s every move. He’s holding up the game after losing so much money, but he doesn’t seem worried. No, Bond is ordering a drink. “Three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet, shake it over ice and then add a thin slice of lemon peel.”

The table sounds off with voices asking for the same drink. Bond grins. He’s never had it before, just mixed a gin martini and a vodka martini and tried to sound confident. It had worked; he pulled it off and Le Chiffre is clearly trying to hold back an outburst.

Le Chiffre looks like he's about to burst a vein. James holds back a chuckle.

“Is anyone interested in playing poker?” It’s sharp, almost worried like he’s running out of time. Bond tilts his head and stares as the man in front of him expresses real emotion for the first time since they’ve sat down.

Wolpert, the America sitting next to Bond, leans over and half-whispers. “Someone’s in a hurry.” Bond can’t help but agree.

The dealer distributes the new cards and Le Chiffre immediately tosses them to the side. Bond watches as he throws a little tantrum, left hand shaking slightly. He looks disgusted, openly and vividly riled up. Bond doesn’t bother looking at his cards and folds.

“Excuse me.” The game isn’t interesting if Le Chiffre isn’t playing. He walks away from the table, barely listening to the other players bet and raise.

He meets Mathis and Vesper at the bar. He slips his hand around Vesper’s waist, tugging her body up against his own. Their lips meet and Vesper lingers a while, kissing back far more than she means to. Bond slips his tongue in before they finally part, savoring the light blush dusting her cheeks.

“Hmm, you taste nice.”

She pulls back but leans into his hand, his fingers splayed over her side. The fabric of her dress is smooth under his thumb as he strokes it over the jut of her hip bone. She is trying to remain professional, trying to act cold. She isn’t very good at it. 

Her cheeks glow a soft pink under the casino lights. She’s actually quite awful.

“I thought we dispensed with covers.”

They did. Bond sees no need in going by a different name when Le Chiffre clearly knows who he’s playing against. It’s a useless cover, a translucent lie. It was laughable and an insult to Le Chiffre’s intelligence.

“No, we dispensed with one that was of no use and created another that is.” He thinks back to Le Chiffre’s behavior when Vesper first walked in, the childish jealousy. He craves attention, loves the feeling of winning and having all eyes on him. “Is he watching?”

Mathis shoots him a confused look but confirms. Of course he’s watching. James can feel the burn of his eyes on the back of his neck. The hairs on his nape start to stand up, adrenaline flows through his veins. Le Chiffre isn’t the only one who likes the attention, the only one who loves to play games

Bond leans in, moves to kiss Vesper again. She ducks him and his lips land awkwardly on her cheek. Bond tries to play it off. He tilts his head like a kicked puppy but Vesper doesn’t seem to care about his plan.

“This is me in character pissed because you are losing so fast we won’t be here past midnight. Oddly my character’s feelings mirror my own.” 

Bond leans back, shifting away from her. Her body follows his hand, seeking the warmth he provided. Bond notices but he doesn’t really care. He’s got a game to win. He picks up his drink and swirls it before taking a sip.

“It was worth it to discover his tell.” He thinks about the taste of the drink, the slight bitter edge. “Hm. Have to think of the name for it.”

Vesper moves away and Mathis reasserts himself in the conversation. “What do you mean, his tell?”

“A twitch he has to hide when bluffs.” He thinks about the slender fingers pressed to his temple, the sharp curve of his cheekbones. The very slight twitch of his milky blue eye, the scar slicing through his lightly tanned skin.

“Bluffs? He had the best hand.”

Vesper sees but she hasn’t quite mastered observing. Maybe she was too busy looking at how the fabric of his blazer stretches a little too tight across his shoulders, a tautness of her own making.

“Which he got on the last card.” He says it like it was the most obvious thing in the world — like anyone else was watching Le Chiffre so closely. “The odds against were 23 to 1 and he’d know that. When he made that first big raise, he was trying to scare me out, he had nothing. Winning was blind luck.”

Vesper doesn’t say anything and Bond tries to move on, pretend he didn’t just get vaguely defensive over something she couldn’t possibly know.

“Did you get it?” He changes the subject.

Mathis nods and slips him a small silver disk. James slides his drink back onto the bar and walks back over to the card table. Mathis watches him as he walks away, but Vesper, always so falsely cold, turns her back on him.

“Maybe he actually can pull this off.” Mathis’ words fall on unhearing ears as Vesper takes a sip of James’ abandoned drink.

Time fades as the game continues. Cards slide across the table, Bond sheds his jacket, bets are placed, and money changes hands. James tries to keep most of his chips, playing modestly with caution. Le Chiffre starts bleeding chips slowly. Tension builds as Le Chiffre moves closer to losing, worry leaking into the air. The rest of the men at the table don’t seem to notice, but James can see it.

Le Chiffre seems more afraid than annoyed.

Bond knows he shouldn’t care. Le Chiffre is a bad man, a piece of the bigger picture, but Bond can’t help but be curious. 

What scares the cypher?

A man steps behind Le Chiffre, leaning down to whisper in his ear. Le Chiffre doesn’t respond, face blank and lips pressed in a tight line. Bond’s curiosity grows.

“We have been playing almost four hours. If there’s no objection, we will take one hour for lunch.” The dealer’s voice breaks through the silent air.

The players all stand, milling around the lounge and heading out to the streets to find one of the many restaurants Montenegro has to offer. Bond stays seated, counting his chips a little slower than necessary to buy himself some time. 

Le Chiffre stands and gestures for the man from before to approach again. Bond thinks his name might be Kratt but he isn’t quite sure, names bleeding together as the day plays out. Bond gets to his feet and moves silently across the floor. He slips behind Le Chiffre and swipes his inhaler off the edge of the table.

He places the bug Mathis handed to him earlier on the base of the metal before sliding it back where he found it. Le Chiffre turns back just as Bond starts to walk towards the bar. He slips the inhaler in his pocket without a second glance and Bond considers the mini mission a success.

“Well, think I’ll report on the morning’s frivolities.” Mathis says, eyes locked somewhere in the distance. He seems deep in thought even as he walks away.

Bond wraps an arm around Vesper’s waist and glances over his own shoulder to see if Le Chiffre is watching. The Albanian isn’t looking, walking away from Kratt and heading towards the door.

“So?” Vesper catches his attention, not pulling away from his touch. 

He doesn’t respond, sipping from his previously abandoned drink. He looks up to find one of Le Chiffre’s men watching him, observing his every move. Bond grins into the lip of his glass. Even when he isn’t present, Le Chiffre is always watching.

Bond loves putting on a show.

He trails his hand up Vesper’s spine, ghosting his way up her dress until he reaches the nape of her neck. She shivers, lips parting ever so slightly in a silent gasp. Bond locks eyes with Chiffre’s goon before whispering in her ear.

“Really? That’s naughty.” He’d feel guilty for leading her on like this if it wasn’t for the mission — if he didn’t know the way she looked at him.

“Now you’ve lost me completely.”

He kisses her on the side of her neck, dipping his head down and pushing her hair out of the way. “You’ve just told me you can’t wait to get me back to the room.”

She starts to pull away, caught red-handed by her own body language. She wants him in the same way she wants to be taken seriously — an odd mix of desperation and pride. He is something to conquer, to overtake. She wants to tame him and prove herself as a strong woman.

He can’t blame her. She’s been cast aside her whole life by men like him and to be wanted by him would somehow prove them all wrong. She’s never been seen as strong and intelligent but Bond sees that, sees her. And she is terrified and intrigued by it; she wants to know him carnally. She wants to know how he works so she can mimic that power.

They are one in the same. Two strong orphans desperately trying to be seen as more than an object. One a blunt instrument to be wielded by the government; the other a sexual doll to be tossed aside.

Bond knows what it’s like to be seen as a base, sexual object. He’s never been judged for it how a woman is, but he knows the look. The one that screams that he is somehow less than human, something to be used up.

He takes her hand and pulls her out of the lounge, not caring about her reaction to his words. He doesn’t care about her denial or her justified rage. He’s been there before; she’s strong enough to get over it.

They stumble into the hotel lobby, playing up the honeymooners act for everyone around them. Bond keeps his arm tight around her waist and she does the same to him. He stops at the concierge desk and asks for his package.

The man behind the desk passes him a manilla envelope and the pair stroll smoothly over to the elevator. He passes Vesper the envelope once the elevator doors close, ignoring her confused glance.

“Open it.”

She does and stares down at the silenced Walther pistol inside. Her hands shake a little. It’s obvious that her position as an accountant hasn’t exposed her to the violence of the field. It throws her off balance, but she needs to get used to it if this mission is going to end well. He can’t have her freaking out the second he pulls his weapon.

Bond puts in a wireless earpiece and punches the top floor button. He doesn’t spare Vesper a second glance, watching his handheld the entire ride up.

The screen shows a range-finder with an X representing their position in the elevator and a blinking dot indicating Le Chiffre’s. As the elevator rises, Bond slowly gets a better idea of where Le Chiffre is within the hotel.

When the dot and the X seem relatively level, Bond slams his finger on the stop button. The elevator grinds to a halt on the fourth floor.

As he walks out of the elevator, his earpiece starts to crackle. A woman’s voice rings through the tinny speak, terrified. It sounds like a woman, perhaps the blonde Le Chiffre had walked in with.

“No, please. Please…” She’s pleading with someone, begging openly, terrified. 

He turns to Vesper; she’s worried and confused and almost hiding outside the elevator bank. “Go to the room. I’ll meet you there.”

She backs away timidly, hesitant to leave him behind. He stalks down the hall towards the sounds of the struggle. She makes her decision to leave him too late, turning the stop the elevator doors a second after they close. She’s left standing in the hallway, waiting for the elevator to come back. She leans awkwardly against the wall, obviously scared of whatever Bond is walking towards.

Bond stands outside a door, the handheld leading him to the right room easily. He can hear a struggle going on inside. A woman is gasping and the deep voice of a man commands the room. He can’t hear Le Chiffre.

A stone sinks in Bond’s stomach. He might lose the game before he finds every piece of the puzzle, before he can put together the big picture.

He’s about to bust the door down to save the day when he realizes Vesper is still in the hall. He whisper-shouts at her, not willing to make her collateral damage if this goes wrong. “Take the stairs!”

Vesper scrambles for the stairwell and Bond moves to slam his shoulder into the door. A voice catches his attention before he can move.

“Not a word of protest. You should find a new boyfriend.” Boyfriend? Whoever is speaking must be talking about Le Chiffre. He hears more struggling and then the wet sound of a kiss. He cringes back, the sound echoing through his ear piece.

Whoever’s inside starts moving towards the door. James turns, grabbing Vesper and pushing her into an alcove. He presses his lips firmly against her’s, blanketing her body with his own like a shield. She shoves a hand into his chest in an attempt to shove him away. She doesn’t understand what kind of danger they’re in right now. He presses forward more forcefully and she finally yields, relaxing into his grasp.

Just as the door opens, her hand grabs at the back of his neck. Bond suppresses a shudder.

Obanno and his Lieutenant step out of the room, eyeing the pair wearily. Obanno grins predatorily as they kiss. They pass by and Bond almost lets himself relax when the Lieutenant spots his earpiece.

The world seems to slow as the henchman reaches for his gun. Bond shoves Vesper towards the stairs and pulls his own weapon from the envelope, firing a silenced shot into the man’s chest before running after her.

Vesper crashes through the stairwell door, stumbling as her heels catch on the floor. Bond tosses the Lieutenant’s body in after her. The dead weight flips over the rail and slams into the ground four floors below with a sickening thud. 

Obanno swings a machete, barely missing James’ arm. James falters back. He slips and his arm slams painfully against the rail. His Walther drops over the railing. He’s defenseless and Vesper is still struggling to run away in her heels. Six inch pumps aren’t exactly field issue.

James swings, cramming his fist against Obanno’s face to keep him from shouting; the larger man bites ferally at his knuckles. 

“Run!”

He isn’t sure why he says it, not one to state the obvious, but it seems to motivate Vesper to move a bit faster. She trips down to the floor below and shakes the door. It’s locked. They’re trapped. She pins herself back into the corner just in time to see James be pushed backwards over the banister.

A loud crack echoes through the inclosed space as his spine hits the stairs. He groans and Obanno leaps after him, machete in hand.

James and Obanno clash together like crash test cars, bodies slamming and blood spilling onto the floor. Vesper sprints further down the stairs. There’s no escape in sight, only blood and violence.

She’s just an accountant. She isn’t built for this.

The harsh blade of the machete catches in the light as it cuts through James' too tight shirt. Red stains the fabric and burning pain rips through his chest. Obanno is broad, warrior like, and strong. Their lips curl up into a vicious snarl. White pearly teeth glint just like the blade and James hopes against all hope that he can win this fight.

Vesper finally reaches the basement floor, running out of stairs. Her legs shake and her heart skips in her chest. Beads of sweat drip down her forehead and her breath puffs manically. She’s trapped.

The last door won’t open.

She looks to check on James, to beg for help, only to be met with the sight of the machete flying towards her. She throws herself to the side, slipping down the wall. The fabric of her dress tears and her ankles roll in her heels. God, she wishes she just wore flats.

The chains on the locked door rattle as she slams herself against it. Her shoulder aches, bruising as she throws herself at the exit in a blind panic. Air refuses to enter her lungs and her eyes are blown wide with fear. The animalistic sounds of the fight propel her forward. Her pain and fear don’t matter. She has to get through. She has to make it out of this. She has to help James.

Obanno and Bond come crashing down, a mess of blood and grunts. The air is hot and stagnant and Vesper can’t breath. She chokes back terrified cries and throws her whole body against the door in desperation.

Bond rights himself, standing on unsteady feet. Pools of red stain his shirt and drip down his practically bare chest. He wraps a thick arm around Obanno’s neck from behind. He squeezes as tight as he can.

Obanno snaps his teeth like a chained up dog, snarling and growling as he turns blue from lack of oxygen. Bond struggles to hold him down. Their bodies sway around the bottom stairwell, swinging around in a violent whirlwind.

Bond’s feet catch on the hem of Vesper’s dress. The purple fabric shreds uselessly under his heel as he falls to the floor. 

The concrete is cold against his back. Cotton fills his head as he neck snaps back from the fall, the recoil causing his skull to bounce off the floor. He clenches his jaw tight, teeth grinding, in an attempt to keep from biting his own tongue in half.

His fallen pistol lays a few feet away, the black metal gleaming starkly in the sea of grey. Obanno’s hand is outstretched, bloody fingers barely grazing the butt of the gun. 

Vesper’s hands shake and her chest heaves. Fear ravages her as she witnesses the fight, a true life or death situation. She lets out a shrill cry when Obanno gets the gun. She can’t move; James’ full body weight is resting on her leg.

A shot rings out as Obanno fires blindly behind him. The bullet skates past Bond’s head and lodges itself into the concrete wall. Dust puffs out and Vesper can’t help the terrified sound that escapes her.

James tightens his grip, muscles flexing as he tries to angle Obanno away from Vesper. She won’t be collateral today; he won’t let her die here. This is his game not her’s.

He fights to push Obanno’s hand up, forcing the gun under the man’s chin. His body shakes with the effort. The gun practically vibrates and Bond tries to get one hand on it. He slides his finger next to Obanno’s and pulls the trigger.

Ringing fills his ears as the warm spray hits him. Vesper’s lip twitches and her eyes are clenched shut. Speckles of red cover both of their faces, sickening freckles. Obanno’s body pins the pair down. He’s nothing but dead weight pressing down on them. Bond’s chest moves with every breath, throat dry and lungs aching. Vesper is whimpering behind him. He tries his best to not find the sound annoying.

She has every right to be terrified; Bond is just desensitized. He’d be pretty bad at his job if he let trivial things like death shake him like it has clearly shaken her.

He shoves Obanno’s weight off them, pulling himself to his feet. Blood drips thickly down his chest and as the adrenaline fades, the wound starts to throb painfully. Vesper is still silent behind him. She’s obviously in shock but he still needs her help. He can’t hide this mess on his own.

The fabric of his shirt tears easily as he pulls it off. He swipes it gently over her face, slowly but surely wiping away the blood. She’s still silent, pink lips pressed into a harsh line, but she leans into the touch. She’s vulnerable and shaking, and Bond wishes that he could just let her go, that she could just go back up to the room and hide there for the rest of the mission.

Accountants don’t belong in the field no matter how intelligent they are, but he needs her to do something for him. He needs her help.

“There you go. Find Mathis. Tell him I’m going to leave the bodies in here; he needs to get rid of them. Can you do that?”

She gives him a weak and unconvincing nod. It’s all he can ask for.

“Go.” He gives her a small push towards the stairs. She goes, shakily climbing the first flight. Her movements are slow until she thinks she’s out of his sight. Once she hits the second flight of stairs, she runs. She sprints like a child who just turned out the light, desperate to get away from the horrors below.

Bond sighs. He grips Obanno’s wide shoulders and drags him under the stairs, stuffing him into a storage bin with little care. Mathis can handle this.

His trip back up to his room is strangely boring. He doesn’t cross paths with anyone which is the most luck he’s had since he’s arrived in Montenegro. He’s not sure how he could explain his ragged state, shirtless and bloody in the middle of a massive hotel.

Once in the privacy of his own room, Bond heads for the bathroom to assess his wounds. He tosses his dirty clothes to the side, the bloody fabric landing in a pile on the tile floor. Hot huffs of breath push past his lips; his chest heaves with every struggling intake of air. He clenches his eyes shut and tries to level out his breathing. He can’t lose it now.

He washes the blood off his arm, taking in the injury for the first time. He hadn’t noticed it before, too focused on staying alive. The blood swirls down the drain as he slaps a quick bandage on. He wipes himself off once more. Layers of blood and sweat scrape off like old skin leaving him anew. Red spirals on the white marble sink. He still feels dirty.

His reflection stares back at him hauntingly. He looks like a ghost, pale and shaky. He won’t let it get to him  —  _ can’t  _ let it get to him. He’s good at his job. This is what he was built for.

Bloody handprints stain the counter as he pulls away, smearing grossly across the white marble. His stomach turns. He turns the water back on, watching the steam waft through the air as it heats up to a scalding temperature. 

He washes his hands twice more before getting dressed.

A small fleck of blood on his jacket catches his attention once he’s inside the bright lights of the casino. Night has fallen over the city, blankets the streets in an inky blackness. Bond dabs the red spot with a napkin and deposits it on a waiter’s tray. He’s got a game to play.

The sight of another player losing a sizable amount of cash to Le Chiffre greets him at the card table. When the Albanian looks up at him, he grins that cat-like smile of his. Bond feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A game of cat and mouse.

Bond isn’t sure how he feels about being the mouse this time around

“You’ve changed your shirt, Mr. Bond. I hope our little game isn’t causing you to perspire.”

Bond suppresses the urge to shift in his seat, a wave of something akin to embarrassment running through him. He’s used to being looked at. Women can’t ever seem to keep their eyes off him, trailing glances and soft smiles that hide sharp teeth. The look Vesper gives him when she thinks he isn’t paying attention, eyes locked on the way his shirt stretches over his chest.

The shirt that had just been stained with blood.

It’s uncomfortable not because he’s being looked at but because he’s being seen.

Le Chiffre had been paying such close attention, not just to his body or his face but to everything about him. He noticed his change of shirt. If the smug look on his face is anything to go by, he’s also noticed the effect his words have on Bond.

“A little. But I won’t consider myself to be in trouble until I start weeping blood.”

The other man smirks, lip curling up in arrogance. One deep brown eye and one milky blue one lock with Bond’s. Bond grins, wide and charming. If he has to play the mouse, he wants to at least be a difficult one.

He wonders briefly how his enemy got that scar, if he still had any vision left in that eye.

It doesn’t matter. Not in the game, not in the mission, and most definitely not in the big picture. Bond doesn’t need to know, but he can’t help but be curious. He wants to see Le Chiffre the way Le Chiffre seems to see him.

The casino buzzes around them. Some of the men at the table aren’t doing very well, bleeding chips and sweating. Their bluffs are translucent.

Bond can see right through them, but he still can’t see through the one man he wants to.

The night trails on and the dealer decides after a few hours to suspend the game for the night. Bond slips away from the table smoothly. Le Chiffre’s eyes follow him as he leaves the casino, burning holes in the back of his head. Bond sways his hips a little. He can almost feel Le Chiffre’s eyes dip lower.

Oh so interesting.

Fingers tug at his tie as he walks through the door of his hotel room. Vesper’s gown is laying in a pile on the floor, the rips visible even in the low light. An empty wine bottle sits on the table and he can hear the shower running in Vesper’s suite.

She must have been tired after the day she had.

He tugs off his shirt, sweat causing it to stick to his skin. He winces as it tugs at his bandages.The wounds sting as he runs his fingers over them. He hopes distantly that they don’t get infected.

The water running keeps him from fully relaxing. It’s clear from the state of the wine that she’s been in for a while. A deep worry settles into his stomach, a dreadful sinking feeling.

Something is wrong.

Vesper’s bathroom seems empty when he first walks in. Concern gnaws at his gut. When he finally spots her, his concern only grows.

Her legs are splayed out on the tile, just barely resting in the shower. She’s still wearing her bra and panties. She doesn’t seem to notice the water pelting down on her. Her eyes are glazed over and has one of her knees pulled up to her chest.

She looks like a terrified child and Bond’s heart shatters in his chest.

He moves next to her, dropping to the shower floor. The water is freezing but Vesper doesn’t seem to notice. She barely even registers his presence, not even looking at him when he wraps an arm around her.

“Shhhhh.” She isn’t making any noise but he can’t think of anything else to say. She turns to him slowly like she’s moving through molasses. Her eyes are faded and without any emotion. 

“You’re all wet.” Bond tries not to cringe. Her voice is all high-pitched and sweet; it’s childlike in its naivety. 

He shushes her again, unable to listen to her withdrawn voice. She begins to shake next to him. She’s shivering and he can hear her teeth start to chatter. She’s snuggling into him now, seeking his warmth. It’s cute in a twisted way. Her vulnerability is appreciated but he doesn’t want it here. He doesn’t want her to get too attached. He’s a 00. She won’t have him for long. He’d hate to hurt her more than he already has.

“I couldn’t get the blood off. It’s still under my nails.”

Her nails are perfectly clean, not a single trace of blood under them. Her hands shake as he lifts them to his face. She allows him to inspect her finely manicured nails, head lolling onto his shoulder.

He thinks about the best way to help her feel better, how to make her feel  _ clean _ again. 

Vesper’s fingers slip between his lips without any resistance. Bond laves softly at them, sliding his tongue between each digit with care. They taste like hotel brand soap; the chemical lavender makes his tongue tingle slightly. He doesn’t mind, though, because Vesper is starting to come alive again.

She wiggles her fingers ever so slightly, pressing her fingertips against his tongue. He gives a little suction as he pulls away, and she lets out a soft gasp when he bites down just enough to let her skin scrape against his teeth.

“Better?”

She stares at her hands, now damp from more than just the shower. “Thanks.”

“You cold?” Bond shivers under the spray, the chill seeping into his bones.

Vesper takes a moment to think, feeling the icy water for the first time since she stepped into the shower, and nods. A tiny little-girl nod. Bond reaches up and adjusts the water, turning it to a more acceptable temperature.

She leans on his shoulder and hums her appreciation. She’s glad he isn’t pointing out her odd behavior. In all reality, he simply doesn’t find it odd. He understands the dirty feeling; he can feel it itching under his skin now. Now that Vesper is a little better, all he can think about is how dirty he feels, the false metallic tang on his tongue. He thinks about bullets hitting concrete and his arm around someone’s throat. He thinks about the card game. He thinks about thick calloused fingers pressing against a temple.

He tries not to think about those same thick fingers pressing against his tongue instead of Vesper’s slim ones. 

Her underwear soaking and so are his pants. He gives her a few more minutes before he pulls her out of the shower. They strip in tandem, damp clothes puddling on the floor. She tugs him toward the bed, naked body glistening in the moonlight. 

Bond doesn’t really want to have sex tonight. He’s tired and his head is foggy. Vesper presses close against him, still vulnerable but no longer raw. She’s murmuring something in his ear. She’s grinding against him, pillow soft and welcoming.

She’s hurting, deflecting from her pain with the very sexuality she despises. He grabs her, pulls her up into his arms, and carries her bridal style to the bed. She bounces on the mattress and he can’t find the energy inside him to smile.

He slides in next to her and rolls her onto her back. He really isn’t in the mood for sex and it’s clear that she isn’t either. She’s hurting and he can play distraction pretty damn well, so they kiss. They kiss and kiss and kiss until their lips are swollen and pink. They kiss until they can’t breath until James is sure that she’s feeling better. Then they sleep and James pretends he isn’t hurting her in the long run. They can’t do this after the mission ends. He’s only proven her hatred of men right.

He feels a little sick. He can’t sleep here; he can’t lead her on more than he already has. He moves to his bed, stepping silently through the cold suite. Hopefully she’ll be too prideful to mention it in the morning.

The sun shining through the windows wakes him. He rolls over in his sheets, eyes squinted shut against the light. A groan escapes him as he stretches; he needs to find some clothes.

Vesper’s door is wide open when he walks by. She’s lying peacefully in her bed, spread eagle with the sheets barely covering her waist. The sun makes her skin glow a nice bronze. She looks pristine like a marble statue laid amongst the silk sheets. He shuts the door, closing her off from the rest of the world.

His phone starts buzzing. A text message from Mathis. He’s needed elsewhere.

Mathis is waiting for him out on the terrace, looking proud of himself. “Have any trouble with the bodies?”

“Less than some.”

He pulls out his phone and gestures to the forecourt below. Police are surrounding one of Le Chiffre’s henchmen at a parked car. Mathis dials and suddenly the trunk starts ringing. Bond smiles.

The police pop the trunk of the henchman’s car to reveal Obanno’s and the Lieutenant’s bodies. The man gets handcuffed and Mathis grins victoriously. “Being dead doesn’t mean one can’t still be helpful. His actual phone will be a goldmine, for sure.”

“Nicely done.”

“How’s our girl? Melted your cold heart yet?” It’s a genuine question but not unkind. Bond doesn’t really see himself as cold; he plays that part well but he does care. Just not alot or about the right things or in the right way.

He doesn’t respond and walks back to the casino.

The game moves quickly, cards dealt and chips lost at a blink of an eye pace. The Argentinian, Gallardo, bleeds chips until he finally loses them all. He doesn’t wait a single moment before leaving. His lips curl into a disgusted frown. James laughs at his loss, snickering into his hand.

Le Chiffre notices his hidden laugh, eyes locked on Bond’s every move. James glances back and the smile slips off his face. The room starts to feel a little too warm for his taste. He tugs off his jacket; Le Chiffre’s eyes dip lower.

The temperature doesn’t change.

Four face up cards lay in the center of the table: Ace, King, Jack, Jack. Le Chiffre flips a chip in his hand, thick fingers barely moving to pull off the trick. It’s a distraction, pulling the table’s attention away from his other hand pressing against the side of his face. Another finger holds back an eye twitch gently, almost imperceptible.

Bond can’t help but stare. His hands are calloused. Bond thinks about how Vesper’s fingers had felt in his mouth, smooth skin pressed softly against his tongue as the shower poured down over them.

He licks his lips, a quick peek of tongue. Le Chiffre’s fingers are thicker; they’d take up more space, brush roughly against his teeth. The blood on Le Chiffre’s hands is more than metaphorical. The metallic taste would flood his senses, stain his mouth red, and slide down his throat.

His hands shake slightly when he grabs his drink. He can’t honestly be thinking like that, imaging  _ that _ .

Le Chiffre is smiling at him, watching as James desperately tries to wash the taste of blood out of his mouth. There’s a glint in his eyes, something lurking just beneath the surface. James gulps.

Wolpert, the American from before, pushes forward a massive pile of chips. “300,000.”

Le Chiffre matches the bet and Bond does the same. The card is flipped, another King. Exactly what Bond needs. Le Chiffre’s face doesn’t change, always impassive, but his fingers tap right above his blue eye. He’s holding back a twitch.

He’s bluffing. 

Wolpert raps his knuckles against the table.

“One million.” Everyone surrounding the table gasps. Le Chiffre smirks, pushing his new bet forward.

He’s trying to scare Bond away. He’s holding back a twitch just like last time. There’s blood in the water now; Bond can smell it. He needs to play big, has to outdo Le Chiffre. Has to prove that he’s better, smarter, anything.

“Six and a half.” 

All in.

The American’s mood seems to change. He grins at Bond as he tosses his cards away.

“I hope you got better than my straight, pal. If you’re bluffing —”

Le Chiffre cuts him off as he pushes all his money in. Bond falters. Doubt fills him as Le Chiffre pulls his fingers away from his face. Could he have been wrong? 

“Mister Bond, you’ve been called.”

James keeps his eyes on Le Chiffre as he reveals his cards.

Vesper is glaring holes in the back of his head, but Le Chiffre is still smiling. His lips pull tight and reveal crooked teeth, sharp canines ready to sink into his prey. A shiver runs up James’ spine.

“Full house, Kings on Aces.”

He’s made a mistake. Le Chiffre shifts his cards, revealing two Jacks. He’s smug and James can’t even be mad because it was his mistake. He’s the one who failed. His ego  — his sickening attraction — had gotten him into this mess, had lost him the  _ game _ .

“You must have thought I was bluffing.”

The chair nearly falls when he stands up, the backs of his knees colliding the white cushion. Vesper is by his side almost immediately, dragging him away from the crowd. Away from peering eyes.

Bond distantly hears the dealer speak, something about a short break. It doesn’t matter. He’s done.

Le Chiffre stands as well, waiting for Valenka, the blonde from the hotel room, to join him. He thinks about the plushness of Bond’s lips, the wet flash of his tongue, and the bobbing of his throat as he sipped his stupid drink. He adjusts his plan. He’ll win this game, pay off the LRA, and if he plays his cards right, get a nice little MI6 plaything as well.

James steps out onto the terrace, staring longingly at the distant hills. Silver slivers of moonlight illuminate the city. His whole world is upside down; he’d lost. Le Chiffre had got him. He’d been so obsessed with how his hands looked, the tilt of his brow, the sharpness of his canines. He’d lost his edge. The big picture has never been so obscured from his view. All he can see is deep brown and cloudy blue.

He feels Vesper join him before he sees her. She trails behind him slowly like she’s afraid to spook him. She doesn’t need to see him like this. He grapples to pull himself together, to think about more than Le Chiffre.

“I’ll need the other 5 million to buy back in.”

Vesper doesn’t speak for a moment. She doesn’t want to give him the money. She knows he’s a losing dog. She can’t bet anymore money on something she knows will be dead with teeth in its neck by the end of the fight.

“I can’t authorize that, James.”

He knows she can’t but he needs it anyway. He can’t lose yet. Le Chiffre can’t win without more of a fight. He grips the balcony railing, knuckles turning white. His breath huffs out through his teeth, jaw clenched tight.

“I made a mistake. I was impatient, maybe arrogant, but I  _ can _ beat him.” He can. He knows it. He just needs the money, just needs some more time.

“I’m sorry.”

She’s sorry? Fucking sorry. He is the one who needs to be sorry. He’s the one who made a mistake, who couldn’t keep his mind on the game.

“Sorry? Use that in a sentence. Sorry Le Chiffre is going to win and go on funding terror and killing people in subways and supermarkets? Sorry children are going to die when they walk past stray shopping bags or parked cars? That kind of sorry?”

There’s blood on his hands. There’s blood in his mouth.

“You winning is not going to stop terrorist bombings. If you think it is, then you are arrogant.”

He knows that it’s true, but he needs it to not be. He needs to win not for the rest of the world or for Le Chiffre’s victims but for himself. The facts don’t stop him from being angry. The facts never changed a damn thing in his life.

“Not all, just a few is good enough for me. And if you or your friends were in the building when it disintegrated, it may be good enough for you, too.” It’s vitriol and hatred and rage. It’s spit with venom and Vesper recoils.

“You  _ lost  _ because of that ego,” She says it with so much certainty it almost stings. “And that same ego can’t take it. That’s what is talking here. That’s what this is about. All you’re going to do now is lose more.”

Now that does sting. It stings like a harsh punch to the face like hitting the dirt after a rough fall. Rage boils over in his chest and he snarls out a humorless laugh.

“You bloody idiot.”

This isn’t about ego or him thinking he can’t lose. No, this is about redemption. It’s about fighting whatever urge grows inside of him when he sees Le Chiffre smile. It’s about the blood on his hands and the taste of copper coins in his throat.

“I’m sorry?”

Bond feels something snap inside of him. He grabs her tight around her arm, holding her in place. “I can beat him! Look in my eyes. You know that!”

“My father was a gambler. Had that same winning look in his eye. Right up to the day he shot my mother and put a gun in his own mouth. Get your hand off me.”

That winning look in his eyes is mania. It’s the taste of gunmetal and blood in his mouth. It’s the desperate need to conquer Le Chiffre the way Vesper wants to conquer him. It’s shock and it’s rage and his hands won’t stop shaking no matter how much he tenses them. He sinks his teeth into his own cheek, rips it raw just to make the blood in his mouth real.

Vesper disappears back into the casino and Bond lets her go because he understands more now. He’s not her first losing dog. She’s already watched one die and can’t stand to stand by while another goes down.

Bond heads to the bar. He can’t face this sober.

“Dry martini.”

“Shaken or stirred?” 

He thinks about bitter lemon and Kina Lillet and the lingering taste it left in the back of his throat. “Do I look like I give a damn?”

Laughing pulls his attention away from the burn of the drink. Le Chiffre is standing with Kratt, a sharp grin on his face. He looks back at Bond and his grin widens. Two new men are there with him, trained killers by the looks of them, but Bond is only looking at Le Chiffre. The Albanian winks and James’ stomach does backflips.

A waiter starts clearing a table next to him. The shiny glint of a steak knife catches James’ eye. Le Chiffre has looked away, walking towards the exit with his henchmen. Bond makes his decision. He can’t get over this how he wanted to, so he’ll do it the next best way.

He palms the knife and moves. Flashes of red fill his vision, all his questions unanswered, M’s disappointment at his failure to see the big picture once again. It won’t matter. He’s a losing dog anyway. He might as well get put down here.

Mathis catches him, stepping out in front of him like a blockade. His eyes are full of sympathy and something James doesn’t care enough to read.

“James…”

“Make sure you get the girl out.” Vesper doesn’t need to watch him go down. He can’t stand to prove her right again.

Realization falls over Mathis’ face, eyes blowing wide. “Bond…”

Bond pushes past. He keeps his eyes on Le Chiffre as they move down the corridor. Kratt and the others are surrounding him, keeping him safe from men like James. It’s a suicide mission, but he can’t find it in him to care. He wraps his hand around the handle of the knife, pulling the blade out of his jacket. Dying with Le Chiffre’s blood on his hands, in his mouth, doesn’t sound like such a bad way to die.

Wolpert stops him, catching him as he moves down the stairs. Le Chiffre starts to disappear into the crowd, but James holds the knife steady. He can’t give up yet.

“Bad break. I thought you had him. Never really introduced myself: Gray Wolpert, of the Langley Wolperts.”

CIA then. Now that’s a shock. James starts listening, lets his eyes fall away from Le Chiffre. Wolpert gestures to the hand that’s holding the knife before speaking again.

“You should have a little faith. I’ve been watching your play. Forgetting that unlucky hand, I think you’ll have him.” A reminder of his loss sends a shock through James’ system. He can still see Le Chiffre in the distance. He still has time to make this right.

“Had. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“...You’re not buying in.”

The look James sends him is enough to get his message across. He’s coiled tight like a livewire, dangerous and ready to snap. Wolpert steps back but doesn’t let James move. His patience is running thin but he hears the American out. 

“Look, I’ve been losing steadily. I’m not gonna last much longer. You’ve got a better chance.” He pauses for a beat. “I’m saying I can get you the money to keep going.”

Bond relaxes, a little shocked but intrigued. The CIA handing out 5 million. There must be a catch, or maybe they’re just extremely desperate. Wolpert smiles, tilting his head slightly. “Just one thing. If you pull it off, the CIA gets to bring him in.”

“And the winnings?”

Wolpert smiles wider like a cat who just caught a canary. “Do we look like we need the money?”

Night falls over Montenegro once more and the game starts back up. The casino’s staff are removing his chair when he arrives. Bond stops them, dragging the chair back into place and sitting down.

Le Chiffre shoots him a shocked look, one brow quirked and a slight smile on his lips. It seems Bond wasn’t the only one upset he lost.

“Lovely stretch; shall we double the blinds?” James says to no-one in particular, reaffirming his place in the game and catching the attention of the other players.

Bond gives Le Chiffre a charming grin and tries to suppress the shiver that runs up his spine when the Albanian smiles back just as wide.

People drop out, money changes hands, and Bond slowly rakes in chips. He’s confident even as Wolpert bleeds chips across the table. Le Chiffre’s facial expression doesn’t reveal anything helpful. He’s stoic even as Bond starts to surpass him in chips.

A waiter comes by a few hours in, placing his special order directly in front of him. Bond grins and takes a sip. He’s winning. It seems his luck has changed.

Vesper is standing by the bar with a confused look in her eye. She doesn’t know how he got back in the game. He shoots her a sly grin and looks back at his cards. She doesn’t need to know how he got back in. All she needs to know is he’s winning.

He blinks, a beat of darkness under the shining casino lights.

The cards have changed… His cards are completely different. He looks around. He’s missing chips. The room has taken on a yellowish hue. Bright white dots surround the lights and sweat pours down his face. He sniffs his drink.

Le Chiffre gives him a shark tooth smile, and James' stomach turns. He’s been poisoned.

“Deal me out. Time for some air.”

The dealer tries to stop him. “Sir, you’re the big blind.”

Bond shoves his chips in and walks away, stumbling as the room spins around him. Behind him the other players react in shock but Le Chiffre, oh Le Chiffre, just shrugs. Bond swipes a glass of water and salt off a waiter’s tray.

He hopes a homemade emetic will do the trick.

Vesper watches him go as people at the bar express their disapproval. A man scoffs as Bond stumbles away with his concoction.

“Who drinks and plays for these kinds of stakes? Idiot.”

Yes, he must be drunk. Vesper writes it off easily, turning back to the game. At least he isn’t playing on her dime. Bloody arrogance.

James busts into the bathroom and dumps all the salt into the glass. He runs the sink water into the cup and throws it all back in one swig. Bile and his dinner all come up his throat quickly and he vomits into the sink basin. His eyes water and his nose burns as it all comes out at once. He doesn’t feel better. He actually feels worse.

He dizzily walks out of the bathroom, desperate to get to his car. His heart pounds in his ears and his clothes become soaked in sweat. A car speeds past, nearly colliding with his foggy body. His vision starts to go, bleary and fading. He finally makes it to his Aston Martin and falls into the passenger seat.

The medipac is easy to get out but James’ hands don’t want to cooperate. He blinks trying to get the flashing lights out from behind his eyes.

When he opens them, a group of people who weren’t previously there are passing by. Oh no.

He tears at the medipac and finds a mess of surgical needles and wires connected to an electronic box. He jams a needle into his arm and makes a call from his handheld.

“Who is it?”

Bond stutters, trying to remain conscious and remember his code name. “007.” A beat passes, maybe two. It feels like hours. Bond isn't sure if it’s because he’s passing out or if the person on the other end just doesn’t know what to do.

“Stay calm and don’t interrupt because you’ll be dead within two minutes unless you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

Sweat covers him in a thick sheet and he can feel himself fading. His hands are shaking and he can hear his heart in his ears. He’s just happy it doesn’t hurt. It’s terrifying and his stomach won’t stop turning but it doesn’t hurt. Le Chiffre hasn’t caused him any pain and Bond is grateful.

“I’m all ears.”

“Remove the defibrillator from the pouch. Attach the leads to your chest.”

Bond pulls it out and listens as it hums to life. Combipens in a rainbow of colors fall out. He presses the leads into his skin and presses the red button of the defibrillator. It still says charging. An array of conversations happen on the other end but none of it is directed at him until someone shouts his name.

“Bond!”

The defibrillator says it’s charged and Bond tenses. This is going to suck.

“Don’t push the red button. Do you hear me? Don’t push it yet.”

He freezes and listens to the sounds of his racing heart and the people shouting outside. His hands are clammy and he can feel the sweat drip down his face. His vision is going again, blurring along the edges.

He might die here; the realization comes to him a little late. He might die in the cage without ever getting into the ring. Rat poison in his kibble. What a way to go.

“Take the blue combipen, Bond. Mid-neck. Into the artery. That’ll counteract the digitalis.”

He crams the needle into his neck and waits for more instructions.

“You’re going to pass out in a few seconds and you need to keep your heart going. Push the red button now, Bond!”

His hand slams against the button full force but it doesn't fire. One of the leads has fallen into his lap. Dizzily, he reaches to fix it, but he can’t. His vision blacks out as shouting fills the car. He drifts in and out, in and out. The lights spin above him as people shout his name.

Vesper is leaning over him now, dream like and blurry. Her hands skate over his stomach as she adjusts the leads. The defibrillator fires and his whole body spasms. It burns like hell, electricity coursing through him and restarting his failing heart. He nearly vomits from the pain, aching and scrapped raw. Vesper is there above him. Her eyes are blown wide and his lips twitch into a weak smile. She cares. It feels selfish to think so, seeing as they will soon have to part ways, but right now she cares and that’s all that matters.

He tugs the needle out of his neck and sits up. He notices Vesper’s hands shaking. “You okay?”

“Me?”

“Thank you.”

Before Vesper can respond, the doctor over the speaker does it for her. “You’re welcome. Now get yourself to the hospital.”

He gives an affirmative and gets out of the car, tugging on his tie as he stands. “As soon as I win this game.”

Vesper tries to stop him from walking off, trying to steady his still wavering body. 

“The red combipen! Take it with you.” A doctor shouts as Vesper pushes Bond back.

“When do I use it?”

A grumble from M answers him before the doctor can get a word out. “Oh you’ll know.”

Bond pockets his handheld and offers his arm to Vesper. She gapes at him, shocked and more than a little confused. “You’re not seriously going back in there?”

He shoots her another weak grin, this one far more confident than the last one. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As he walks back into the casino, a confused Vesper trailing behind him, Bond can’t help but smile. Le Chiffre nearly drops his jaw at the sight of him, eyes locked on the pale ghost that is Bond.

“Sorry. That last hand nearly killed me. I think I’ll change my drinks. Water if you would.”

Le Chiffre looks unnerved but oddly relieved. Bond smiles at him, and the Albanian’s eyes drift to the tiny needle mark on his neck. Unconsciously, Bond tilts his head back to give the man a better view, baring his throat to the predator who just tried to kill him. Le Chiffre starts to smile as well.

The game continues without a hitch.

Wolpert makes one last ditch effort, tossing all his chips in. He loses and slinks away from the table, sending Bond one last half-smile for good luck. 

There’s only 5 players left and the long game is taking its toll on everyone except Le Chiffre, who remains cool even under pressure. Cards fly and Bond’s stack of chips grows steadily. The game has been grueling. Even the dealer looks exhausted. It doesn’t take long for him to call for another break.

Bond takes the chance to wander into the bathroom, hands shaking. He looks up in the mirror and barely recognizes himself. He puts his foot up on the counter and jams the red combipen into his leg.

He heads back to the table like nothing happened, only feelings a little better.

Fukutu and Infante look exhausted, tossing back expresso near constantly. Le Chiffre is alert despite the long day. It’s almost preternatural.

The dealer’s tired voice calls everyone's attention. Bleary eyed players look up for instruction while Le Chiffre simply counts his chips boredly. “The big blind is now one million.”

Bond puts in a million dollar plaque and watches as Infante bets a small blind next to him, hands moving slowly. The community cards are laid down and everyone looks at their own hand. Tiredness makes it near impossible to properly plan ahead, strategy slowly slips away from them. Le Chiffre grins at the rest of the table, wide awake.

“5 million.”

The rest of the table matches the bet.

The next community card is placed and Fukutu, coffee in hand, goes all in. 9 million goes into the pot and the rest of the table matches his bet. Bond and Le Chiffre keep their eyes on one another. They’re the only ones who seem awake enough to read faces, but they don’t use it to their advantage against the others. They only watch each other.

The dealer lays out the last card. It’s the Ace of Spade. Infante goes all in as well. Bond assumes he has a full house to be playing so brazenly this late in the game. “5 million.”

Le Chiffre gives Bond a sly grin. “10 million.”

Bond grins back and goes all in, shocking everyone watching. The dealer quickly counts his chips and plaques to find out the amount of the bet.

“10 million.”

Le Chiffre gives him a strange look before smiling again. He looks Bond up and down before pushing the rest of his chips forward as well. “Very well.”

“Gentlemen, show your cards.” The dealer’s voice pulls their attention from each other and back to the game at hand.

Fukutu reveals his spades flush — Ace, King, Queen. Infante smiles widely and places down his pair of 8s — a full house, eights full of Aces. Le Chiffre follows suit, placing down his cards with a wolfish grin — an Ace and a 6. A superior full house.

Bond keeps his cool not letting Le Chiffre know what he’s holding. He places his card down — 5s and 7s.

“It seems your flush is the low hand.” Le Chiffre sounds so proud, so damn proud, that it makes Bond grin. 

“My  _ flush _ is. But not my straight flush.”

The dealer arranges Bond’s cards over the community cards, revealing a superior hand. “Four through eight of spades, the high hand.”

Le Chiffre stares at the cards in disbelief. A small red tear forms in his eye, catching Bond’s attention. The Albanian dabs at it balefully, staring straight at Bond. Le Chiffre stands before Bond can speak again and disappears into the crowd.

Bond almost feels bad.

He leans over to Wolpert. “He’s all yours.”

“Thanks, brother.” The American grins and stands to follow Le Chiffre into the crowd of onlookers.

Bond waltzes over to the bar where Vesper is waiting for him. She smiles softly and reaches out to touch his shoulder. “Congratulations.” 

“Shall we celebrate?” He doesn’t pull her in like she expects him to. Le Chiffre is no longer watching. They don’t need to use the honeymooner cover anymore. There is no audience for James to perform for anymore.

“You were almost dead an hour ago.”

He smiles. “Exactly. And now I’m famished.”

It's four in the morning when they arrive at the hotel restaurant. Their eating lavishly, lobster and caviar laying in front of them. There’s live music playing and the lights are down low. Candles are spread sporadically throughout the room. Other people are milling around and eating but it’s mostly empty.

Vesper’s phone buzzes as Bond takes a bite of his lobster. “Mathis says the Americans have made contact with Le Chiffre. He’s hiding in his suite; they’re going to extract him by midnight tonight.”

Bond ignores her, sipping his speciality drink. “I think I’ve finally got a name for this.”

“Oh? Do tell.” She tilts her head to the side and raises her brow comically.

“Did you know Le Chiffre translates to ‘the cypher’?”

“You’re naming the drink after the man who tried to kill you?” She sounds incredulous and a little annoyed. Bond just smiles.

“It’s bitter and leaves an odd taste in your mouth. I think it’s fitting.” It’s also the only he wants to have now that he’s gotten a taste, but he keeps that to himself.

She giggles and toys with her necklace as they both relax and eat. Her slender fingers fiddle with the metal and Bond gives her a soft grin.

“I’ve realized what that is.” He gestures to the symbol on her necklace. “An Algerian love-knot.”

“Really? I just thought it was just something pretty.” Her lie isn’t believable, a nervous flit of her fingers and widening over her pupils.

“No, you didn’t. It was given to you.” She gives him a small nod so he continues. “Well, he’s a lucky man.”

She lets out a little laugh, more of an exhale than anything else, then waits a moment before speaking. “You can forget it all that easily, can’t you? Those men last night, I know they were attacking you, but it doesn’t bother you, killing them?”

Bond thinks for a moment about what to say. Nothing feels right. He can’t just say he does mind the blood and death and can never seem to get the blood of his hands so he just moves on. That he spends almost every waking moment feeling dirty and bruised. That despite everything he’s seen he still loves the rush and doesn’t want the game to end.

He finally settles on something that’s only half-true.

“It’s my job. I wouldn’t do it very well if it did.”

She gives him a long look and unlike with Le Chiffre he doesn’t feel seen. He just feels looked at, viewed from the outside with little insight to his mind. “See, I don’t believe you.”

Bond just shoots her a smirk in response.

“You have a choice, you know? Just because you’ve done something doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it.”

Bond sighs. “Why do people who can’t take advice always insist on giving?”

“You think I can’t take my own advice?” She’s defensive, glaring at him through the candlelight.

“I think something’s driving you, and I think I haven’t a chance of ever finding out what it is.” They’ll be leaving Montenegro soon. Bond hopes, for Vesper’s sake more than his own, that they never end up in the field together again.

Her phone buzzes with another text, cutting off her chance to respond. “Mathis needs me. Well, goodnight. Congratulations. I’m sure I’ll see you in the morning before I leave.”

She disappears before Bond can say goodnight. He gestures for the waiter to come over and points at his drink. “I’ll take another.”

An uneasy feeling creeps into the air. He feels the same way he did when he walked in the suite the night before to her laying in the shower. Mathis hadn't been watching in play; he’d watched Le Chiffre. Mathis had known he’d found Le Chiffre’s tell. Mathis disappeared at weird times and always seemed lost in thought.

Mathis had just messaged Vesper, pulling her out of the restaurant and onto the dark street.

Bond gets to his feet quickly, ignoring the confused waiter. Dread grows in his stomach till it almost swallows him whole. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

Just as he steps out into the parking lot, a cry fills the air. He jerks his head towards the sound just in time to watch the side door on a dark sedan slam. He sees Vesper through the back window, screaming and being forced down.

He jumps into his Aston Martin and takes off after it as quickly as possible.

The car careens around corners on dark country roads as he races after the sedan. He barely pays the speedometer any attention. It doesn’t matter. He needs to get Vesper back. He can’t lose her now, not after he thought he won. 

All four wheels leave the ground when he races over a steep hill. As the car bounces against the asphalt, he notices something in the road.

It’s Vesper, tied up and struggling.

He jerks the wheel, cutting it so hard to the side that his whole body snaps to the right. It veers directly into the ditch, flipping through the air. He feels the frame of the car crumple against his body as he’s tossed around like a ragdoll. The car finally stops when it slams against a tree. Bond can feel blood drip down his face from a cut above his brow. He must have hit the steering wheel at some point. He can’t really tell, head spinning.

Suddenly he’s being dragged from the car. He blinks blood away from his eye, kicking ever so slightly in an attempt to escape. It’s Kratt and some other goon. They toss him out into the grass gracelessly. It’s damp with early morning dew and Bond’s blood.

He feels a blade pierce the skin on his back. It’s a woman now, Valenka maybe? She tears the MI6 tracking device from his shoulder. Kratt’s boot in digging into his chest, bruising his sternum and reopening his machete wound.

Another car pulls up, headlights blinding Bond. Someone lifts him up and drags him over to the new car. Le Chiffre steps out, still wearing his gorgeous all black suit. He grins down at a bloody Bond and slips his phone into his pocket. James squirms under Kratt’s hold, doing his best to seem intimidating. Le Chiffre just laughs.

“I’m sorry to tell you, but your friend Mathis is actually my friend Mathis.”

Kratt heaves Bond up into his arms and tosses him into the back seat of the car next to a struggling Vesper. Le Chiffre gets into the front seat next, still grinning. Bond lets his eyes slip shut, head still spinning wildly. It’s not like he can do anything now.

His eyes open again when he’s thrown haphazardly onto a concrete. His hands are tied behind his back, the zip ties cut into his skin harshly. He can hear the sound of fabric ripping distantly. Blood is still dripping down his forehead, saturating his clothes and partially blinding him. He’s being dragged again over to a cane chair. He hears a door click shut behind him. The overwhelming feeling of dread gnaws at his ribs. Something very bad is about to happen to him.

Kratt slices off his clothes, shredding them easily with a serrated blade, and sits him on the cane chair. Bond quickly realizes there isn’t a bottom on the chair, leaving him completely exposed.

Something very, very bad is about to happen to him.

Le Chiffre waltzes into view and circles Bond like a shark. He’s holding something that Bond doesn’t quite recognize. Some kind of knotted roped? A really long carpet beater? Bond isn’t sure, but he knows it’s going to hurt when it hits him.

The Albanian’s eyes rake over his naked body, taking in every detail. Bond shivers and tries to pretend it’s from the cold air in the basement.

“You’ve taken such good care of your body. Such a waste.” He runs a hand over Bond’s chest but his eyes are locked much lower. James tilts his head back, once again barring his neck to the man who captured him. Le Chiffre runs his thick fingers over his neck; he presses lightly on his Adam's apple. James gulps at the pressure, and Le Chiffre smiles.

“I’ve never understood all these elaborate tortures. It is the simplest thing to cause more pain than a man can possibly endure. And of course, it is not only the immediate agony, but the knowledge that if you don’t yield soon enough, there will be little left to identify you as a man. The only question that remains, will you yield in time?”

He swings the rope under the chair and James can’t hold back a scream as it collides with his crotch. He isn’t hitting as hard as he can but it is still almost unbearable. 

Le Chiffre reaches out again, tipping James’ jaw up with his fingers. His touch is feather light. The contrast makes Bond’s head spin, emotional whiplash setting in. He strokes his thumb gently over James’ lower lip. He presses down slightly, just enough for the tip of his thumb to hit James’ teeth.

Bond almost bites down but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets his tongue lip out. He swipes it softly over Le Chiffre’s finger, much to the surprise of the other man.

Encouraged by James’ behavior, Le Chiffre presses his finger in deeper. Bond scrapes his teeth over the knuckle but still doesn’t bite. M may disagree but he’s always been a good dog. He knows not to bite the hand that’s feeding him, the hand that holds the remote to his shock collar.

Le Chiffre swings the rope over his shoulder and takes his other hand and strokes James’ hair. His gentleness quickly shifts into something more. He grips Bond’s hair tight and grabs his lower jaw from the inside of his mouth. Bond’s tongue is pinned to the bottom of his mouth and his jaw aches at the awkward angle.

“Valenka is in the other room with your darling Vesper. She  _ will _ give us the account number. All I need from you is the password. Now be a good boy and give it to me.”

James nips lightly at the finger in his mouth, not enough to hurt let alone draw blood. Le Chiffre pulls away and grins. He snaps the rope under the chair and Bond screams. He can hear Vesper let out a twin scream from another room and his heart sinks. He can’t get her killed, can’t let his disgusting obsession with adrenaline get in the way of the mission.

“I’ll be good. Just don’t hurt her.” His voice comes out broken, desperate and full of pain.

Le Chiffre grins and swings again, a little lighter this time. James grunts but doesn’t scream this time. He bites at his lip to suppress the noises he’s making. Le Chiffre doesn’t seem very pleased with his decisions.

The Albanian reaches out again and forces James to stop. He grips his bottom jaw tightly and yanks his head forward. “Cut that out, Mr. Bond. I thought you were going to be good for me?”

It’s demeaning, patronizing, and so humiliating, but Bond can hear Vesper fighting and screaming nearby. He nods and Le Chiffre pets his cheek.

“Now give me the password.”

“Hit me again.”

Le Chiffre’s jaw drops a little before he regains composure. He smiles and delivers the hit, almost as hard as he can. James screams. It rips his throat raw and pains rockets through his whole body. He deserves this. He didn’t notice Mathis’ deceit. He let Vesper get caught. He’d lost the game and only got redemption from a desperate American.

“The password, Mr. Bond?”

James forces a smile onto his face, glaring up at Le Chiffre through his lashes. “Jean… Jean Duran.”

Le Chiffre’s jaw does drop this time. The Albanian almost drops his weapon at the sound of his name, his  _ real _ name. He swings again with a snarl on his face. James jumps, chair nearly flipping over. The scream that tears from his throat is almost inhuman. Tears start to stream down his cheek, and he’s sure now that he’ll never be able to have kids.

“Give me the password! NOW!.” It’s harsh, venom spewing from the man’s mouth. Spit hits Bond on the face and he recoils.

“I… I j-just did.” He can hardly speak, blood dripping from his lips because he’d accidentally bitten his tongue.

“My name is your password?” It’s a hushed whisper as Le Chiffre moves forward. He cups James face and smiles down at him. “Ever since I saw you in the lounge that first night, I knew you were different. You’ve seen too much of this world but you can’t help but love it. You crave the violence MI6 provides.”

James can’t deny, doesn’t really want to. Vesper has stopped screaming now. All his attention is on Le Chiffre, on those beautifully thick fingers pressing into his cheek. His whole body hurts. He thinks his ribs might be broken and the wound on his chest is still leaking blood down his abdomen. He wants this pain to end. He wants to keep playing the game from before. Poker is so much easier than whatever this is, so much easier than facing the truth.

“What do you want, Mr. Bond? I can let you go. Set you free alongside your girl and you keep being MI6’s unloved dog. Or…” He pauses and swipes his fingers of the half-dried blood on Bond’s forehead. “You can come with me and I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

He slips his bloody fingers into Bond’s mouth and grins sadistically when he licks them clean. James can’t help it, vulnerable and ripped raw. He’s dizzy and in pain and he isn’t sure what he really wants anymore.

The taste of Le Chiffre’s fingers on his tongue is addicting. It’s everything Vesper’s wasn’t. It isn’t sexual. It isn’t even fucking romantic. It’s carnal and disgusting and James is gagging for it. He needs it. He leans into it, almost choking himself. His head spins and shame fills him but he can’t stop. Le Chiffre is smiling at him so wide. It almost feels like approval, like validation.

Vesper’s screams cut through the air and James pulls his head back, frantic. “Can you… Can you let her go? She can’t give you anything now.”

A beat passes as Le Chiffre slips his finger into his own mouth, blood and saliva mixing on his own tongue. He murmurs more to himself than to Bond. “Hmm. You taste nice.”

He thinks for another moment before moving towards a door. He cracks it open and says something to Valenka and Kratt. Bond hears a loud thud before Vesper’s unconscious body is dragged out of the room and up the stairs.

The Albanian turns his attention back to the man tied to the chair. “Now what about you, darling? What should I do with you?”

“I can’t be a kept boy.” He stutters for a moment, trying to find his thoughts. He thinks distantly that he might have a concussion. “I’m not some rich terrorist’s sugar baby.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be. I can let you go. You can run back to MI6 with your tail between your legs and tell them that the LRA gave me the money to buy in or,” He moves on like he didn’t just give James an out, that he didn’t just gives James a huge piece of information that could burn his whole operation to the ground. “You can tell them you’re hunting me. Maybe someplace sunny. Have you ever been to Costa Rica, Mr. Bond?”

“No… I haven’t.”

Le Chiffre smiles and steps behind him, cupping Bond’s face from behind. He leans over his shoulder, reminiscent of Vesper that first night. “Would you like too, Mr. Bond? I can make it happen.”

James shivers and leans back. Vesper is safe. The money doesn’t matter. The CIA is to blame Le Chiffre’s escape. He can have this. He doesn’t have to be conquered or tamed. Le Chiffre likes his power. James likes giving it up. It just works.

Maybe that’s just his concussion talking.

“Jean, please just call me James.”

Cold lips press to his cheek, followed by the soft press of tongue. “Costa Rica in one week. In Nosara. I’ll be waiting for you, James.”

A knife cuts through the zip tie holding him down.

“The CIA will be here soon. Please try to pretend you didn’t enjoy this as much as you clearly did. I’ll see you soon, darling.”

He will and James knows it. He’s always wanted to spend time on a warm beach somewhere, always wanted to rest in the sun for more than just a mission. Without women staring at him, without eyes following him everywhere.

“Goodbye, Jean. Try not to blow up any little kids in my absence.”

Le Chiffre turns back once as he walks up the stairs, an almost kind smile on his face. “See you soon, James.”

James lets his eyes slip shut, letting the ache of his whole body ground him. It takes 15 minutes for Vesper to wonder back down. It takes 30 for the CIA to show up with local police. It takes 5 days for James to be able to walk again without screaming in agony. Vesper keeps trying to get him to rest, keeps trying to baby him. He tries not to resent her for it. She is a good friend of his now. He wants to keep in contact now that he knows she’ll never be in the field with him again. It takes 7 days for him to make it to Nosara.

It only takes an hour after his landing for Kratt to find him and push him into the back of a black town car.

A bottle of Kina Lillet and a lemon is sitting in the fancy cooler. James grins. This might be the best — and only — vacation of his life.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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